nyctophilia
“So many people are shut up tight inside themselves like boxes, yet they would open up, unfolding quite wonderfully, if only you were interested in them.”
The day dawdled along without me in it. I rushed alongside—trying desperately to catch all the pieces! What a chore it is to do the thing you need to do. If I could do only a few things each day, it would be a shortlist—written in longhand.
I would read a poem shaped like a rectangle, spread myself in the sun, lay on the ground with my arms outstretched, drink a bubbly drink from a heavy glass, hold hands with someone, run my fingers through the curly bits of hair at the nape of their neck, undo a necklace, rub lotion on my shins, mash a softly boiled potato, pull linen from a hot dryer to fold, listen to children laugh, lose an earring, climb upwards on rocks until my hands bled, fold myself backwards until my nose touched the ground, light a match to feel the flame against my fingertips, lick a spoon covered in honey, let ice cream melt until the cone is mushy and my hands are sticky, run in the waves and kick muck up my calves, open my face to the rain to feel the weight of the sky in my mouth, let a cat lick my eyelashes, hear my sisters voice on the phone, feel someone’s hand on my back just between my shoulder blades, listen to the metallic click of a gastop stove, I’d watch the unfolding of life through darkened windows.
I’d scratch a Ponderosa Pine tree until my nails break just to catch the sweet scent of butterscotch on my skin.
A sky so black it carpeted my dreams with obsidian imagery. What is the reason for waking when you no longer understand your reason for being? I wept between worlds, trapped in the static until the sun clamoured out from the hills. The white-washed walls appeared wise and cynical. Jaunting me from bed.
My day was a tidy summary of events that do not need to be archived. The paltry details of unpacking, washing, purchasing groceries, organizing, itemizing, cooking, arranging, eating, talking, tidying. It’s the details that matter. What is the order for living a life? Who decides what is best for the body?
I did Temper the Fire to rinse the lethargy from two days in transit.
Dinner presented itself on a white dish with no salt. Bitter dark chocolate in bed. The duvet is midnight, and I lose my way to the shower. The windows steam, and I cannot find the floor. Back to the bedroom, where the walls groan with shadows. I procure one lighter and two flat boxes of incense. As the earthy scent fills the room, I fall backwards through the long hall of memories I’ve held away from my body with a fist.
I miss the Ocean.
I miss my Persian rug.
I miss the stains from the beeswax candles on my bathroom sink.
I miss standing in my kitchen drinking tea while flipping through Tartine.
I miss considering and never earnestly endeavouring to make sourdough from Tartine.
Sometimes, the longing is more impressive than the outcome.
Perhaps that’s why we keep moving—to gaze backwards at the things we left behind to love them harder. To hold the people and places that drove us nearly mad, a little closer to the heart with the wish of missing. The hope of returning to what we once had yet didn’t want badly enough to stick around for.
Photo, source.
